The 100 Word Stories Podcast

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at podcasting.isfullofcrap.com. I’m your host, Laurence Simon.

This is Weekly Challenge Number Three Hundred and Nine, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.

The topic this week was Rhymes With Itch.

And we’ve got stories by a lot of people:

Logan Berry
Tura
Sevi
Julie
Serendipity Haven
Chris Munroe
Lizzie Gudkov
Zackmann
Guy David
Tom
Danny
Red Goddess/TalkMarie
Cliff
Norval Joe
Planet Z

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post.

The more people see this on Google Plus, Facebook, and Twitter – the more explaining you’ll have to do with your loved ones, coworkers, and parole officers.

Oh, and since it’s the internet…

There. Obligatory cat photo.

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Logan Berry

Sneaky Footsnap was a snitch,
He had a plan to make it rich.
Bertha Cussmore was a witch,
Who made a fortune selling pitch.
Sneaky dressed up like the bitch
Certain none would note the switch.
His clever ruse had one small hitch,
Sneaky Footsnap had a twitch.
By virtue of this telling glitch.
Sneaky wound up in the ditch,
Lifeless, cold, without a stitch.

Tura

“Burn the rich!” chanted the crowd blocking the road. I asked one of them, “What’s this, an Occupy revival?”

“No, ‘rich’ is short for ‘rhymes with itch’. We can’t call odd old women with too many cats…you know, rhymes with itch. That would be Hate Speech!”

“But there’s no such thing as witches–” A rubber bullet immediately knocked me to the ground, so I didn’t get to see what happened next, with the tyres and petrol cans, while the mob and the riot police looked on.

Afterwards, they charged me with Hate Speech, Denial, Obstructing Free Expression, and Provoking Violence.

Sevi

Links of strong steel
Hitched securely
Behind wheels of freedom

Desire to travel somewhere
A wish to wander elsewhere
True desire to escape
From the pain within me
The external torture
You inflict within

All around me
The hot sharp knife-like words
Piercing through my soul
Screaming through my vulnerable body
Rendering me helpless and
Unable to move away from it
An Inability to make it stop
Boxed into a dark damp hole
No exit to escape

One day
Clarity offers hope
An oppourtunity to break free
From the constant torture
From the pain
Step on the gas. Go!

Julie

OK, so it rhymes with itch.
I went to Catholic school, and we were not supposed to use certain words. Not that I didn’t have the temptation to do so, but there were consequences. We didn’t have Starbucks, or Dunkin in those days either. The coffee sucked, and so did the plaid polyester uniforms.
Our Vice Principal was named Sister Fish. Marjorie Fish. No joke. She rhymed with itch. A lot. Especially when she caught me smoking in the girls’ bathroom and I tossed the cigarette and hit her in the leg, burning a hole in her support hose. Busted!

Serendipity

It was the Flea family’s holiday and Father Flea was determined to make it a cultural experience.

“We’re going to the literature festival!”, he announced, to the groans of the rest of the family, “I’ve picked up a programme and there’s plenty for us to do.”

“Will there be amusements and games”, Bobby Flea asked?

“Candy Floss and hot dogs?” – from Gemma, with a winsome look.

“No. We’re going to listen to poetry”, came father’s response, to universal groans, “It’ll be fun – an all day event called, ‘Flea poetry through the years – Rhymes with itch'”

Would it be fun? Probably not!

Muns

I’d thought losing my soul would hurt. It didn’t.

Well, maybe a little, but only for a moment.

Afterward, I thought I’d feel empty, like something important had been taken from me, and that much was true.

Something had been taken from me.

Guilt. Shame. The burden of caring about the needs of others.

Their absence is a weight removed from my shoulders.

I finally feel free.

My high priest takes the soul, weds it to the phylactery, and sends it with my minion to be hidden somewhere it will never be found.

And I rise from my altar, immortal.

izzie

The old witch who knew zilch about motorized vehicles kept driving her broom into the drainage ditch. She didn’t know there was a switch to override the broom’s ignition glitch. Yes, it was an older model, just because the witch liked everything kitsch. So one day a fellow kitsch witch told her that Mr. Fitch, the rich man with the barber’s itch, had solved the broom’s problem with a simple machine stitch! The witch was very suspicious which made her scream in a high pitch “I hate machines!” and again she nose-dived into the drainage ditch which was full of…!

Zackmann

“I don’t know if old medicine is always a bad idea. Much of our modern discoveries originated with third world medicine men.” said Alex
“Are you giving up on modern medicine?” asked Jake
“No not really, we tried modern medicine first although what granny has currently seems incurable with modern medicine. Granny saw this professional on a morning talk show, who has had a great deal of success with cases like hers. We decided to try her before using Hospice”
“Is she a specialist?” inquired jake
Alex replied
“Well, you could say that but her job title ends in itch”

Guy

I wanted to make a speech
In order to find my own niche
But I just couldn’t reach
My papers who where scattered at the beach
So I gathered them each
Into a notebook I stitched
Still the words began to screech
Until my voice came at the wrong pitch
And they had to pull down the switch
Less my audience I would enrich
And make them rich
So I had to ride my ostrich
All the way to a ditch
Where I was picked up by a witch
Who didn’t even flinch
As she turned me into a sandwich

Tom

Rhymes with itch

Sounds with ditch

No No

Two syllables

first syllables

fly

mosquitoes

no

your flapping your

arms

your a condor

don’t give me that look

your the jerk who’s going to lose us this game

ok

your pick something out of the ground

and your smelling it.

It a flower?

yes

flower

and

something comes out of the flower

and it bits you

no

it stings you

a bee

good

second syllable

your riding a horse

no

your flying a horse

no

your flying on a a

broom

be broom

well fuck you too

your a witch

bewitched

Danny

The Witch with a severe facial Twitch, who lived in the English town of Ipswitch, looked at the topic for this weeks challenge, certain that Crap Mariner was challenging her to write a story without swearing. The Witch, whose name was Mitch, accepted the challenge, insisting if she did swear, she would beat herself with a switch. Mitch clacked away on her typewriter, completing the story without a hitch, despite her facial twitch. “Here you thought I couldn’t get through this weeks challenge without calling myself a bitch!” she exclaimed. After a long sigh, Mitch beat herself with a switch.

RedGoddess

In this depressing economy, many are doing jobs they thought were only reserved for high school drop outs and so called illegal aliens. Working Americans find themselves at the mercy of those shall we say “rhymes with itch.” Depending on the day and the imprint of their assaulting insults, many names are reserved for those bosses, managers, upper management and the rest with big titles but lacking in little common courtesy. People’s identities and dignity should not be tied to their jobs, hourly wages or where they rank on the poverty line. When least expected, Karma will scratch them out.

Uncle Monster

I was tired of reading my own stories so I put an ad on Craigslist. I got one response. It was not quite what I was expecting.

Hi. I’m responding to your ad for voice talent. I’ve been at this for some time and I know my way around a recording studio. I can send you samples of my work. I’m currently employed but I’ve decided that it’s time I got out of the basement and struck out on my own. My contact info is attached.

I think I’ll keep reading my own stuff. I just didn’t like his pitch.

Norval Joe

Spleen launched himself across the woodpile at the boy. His razor sharp claws extended and acid-icor dripped from his fangs. He dropped to the floor and hissed at the woman and boy across the woodpile. He lept with all his might, the muscles of his thighs like tightly wound springs. He flew across the woodpile at the boy and could taste his blood.
The woodpile still between them, he screamed and launched himself again, only to drop to the ground, where he’d started.
“What are you, a witch,” Spleen hissed at the woman.
Shareeka laughed.
“Something like that,” she said.

Planet Z

Deep under Mount Thundercloud, we found The Shadow Machine.

Acres of pipes and motors and engines. Built by the ancients.

It still feels warm.

What does it do?

I don’t know. Nobody does.

All these plans and blueprints and manuals are in the language of the ancients.

All their power.

Just waiting.

Buttons. Switches. Dials.

Which to use first?

What? Google has the language of the ancients in its Translate site?

Oh. Okay.

We’ll take the plans and manuals back to…

It’s on your mobile?

Damn. That’s impressive.

Powerful.

Who the fuck needs this ancient shit, right?

Let’s go home.

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at podcasting.isfullofcrap.com. I’m your host, Laurence Simon.

This is Weekly Challenge Number Three Hundred and Eight, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.

The topic this week was I don’t know what it is.

And we’ve got stories by a lot of people:

InertialVoom
Bonchance
Logan Berry
Tura
Lizzie Gudkov
Tom
Chris Munroe
Serendipidy Haven
Zackmann
Steven The Nuclear Man
Red Goddess/TalkMarie
Cliff
Buttermilk
Guy David
Abernathy and Sachy
Chris the Nuclear Kid
Norval Joe
Planet Z

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post.

The more people see this on Google Plus, Facebook, and Twitter – the more explaining you’ll have to do with your loved ones, coworkers, and parole officers.

Myst says “Listen!”

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Inertial Voom

The Ataturk Curse:

We were in the trenches at Tripoli. The Turks fired their cannons at us.

I saw a figure that looked like Buddha floating above the struggle. Bullets did not affect his calm appearance.

The Turks scrambled over the trench and I drew my knife. I noticed my enemy had my face, I dropped my knife and ran, and so did my enemy.

Miles away, I looked in the water to see my reflection while I quenched my thirst in a small stream. I had the uniform of a Turk, and had a face I did not know.

Bonchance

The Drive

I don’t know what it is, appointments are always on Monday.
Heavy traffic with long drives and still no time to talk.
Tom could see her friend in the back seat texting.

In the passenger seat, Kristen was watching the miles pass through the window, listening
to music on her headphones.

He smiled as he heard the music. Remembering how he used to scold her for having
it up too loud. He laid his hand on her hand.

She squeezed his hand tight and smiled still looking out the window.
Tom returned his attention to driving, thinking, talking’s over rated.

Trebble Stew

What is it, bones?

I don’t know what it is Jim, but I know I didn’t put it in here.
Scotty leaned his head down to the pot and smelled it, saying,
” I don’t know what it is Cap’n but it don’t smell right”.

Jim nodded his head and said let’s give it to the Vulcan, he can eat anything.
If he gets sick from it we’ll just say it must be too much garlic, like last time.

Spock always did say that humans had a rather bland taste in food.
Which explains why he had so few human friends.

Logan Berry

It was round and shiny. Droplets of dew slithered down its skin. It hung heavy among the leaves. She had never seen anything like it. She encircled it with trembling fingers and pulled until it came away. Ravenous, she brought it to her nose, inhaling deeply. It smelled sweet but tart, too. Sour but tantalizingly ripe. She bit.

“I don’t know what it is,” she whispered, “but it’s good.”

“Let me taste!” her companion cried. She ignored him, her eyes closed in heavenly bliss. “Dad says we have to share,” Adam muttered sulkily. She considered his words, and generously relented.

Tura

There is a secret that all make semblance to know, yet none speak. It is whispered in the darkest corners of the fitful night; for one day it appeared as a graffito scrawled in the stifling summer heat of a derelict alley in Montmartre; it is written in a book that does not permit itself to be read.

It is the secret that God told to the serpent, the serpent told to Eve, and Eve told to Adam.

But I think that the true secret is that the secret has been lost, and none any more knows what it was.

Lizzie

I run frantically. A dead-end is ahead, and yet another. I run and turn and run again. Stopping for a moment, I look up. All the windows are closed, the doors locked. Fearful, people are hiding. But he is out there, lurking in the shadows. Suddenly, he appears from nowhere, confident. I can feel him right behind me. I turn around slowly. It is time. I grab my sword and slash him dead. I smirk and walk back to the central plaza, to the light. This strange force, I don’t know what it is, but the city is still mine!

Tom

“I don’t know what that is,” said Tommy. Most ads in McCall’s and Red Book were highly identifiable. Even objects he had never actually come in contact with held enough temporal form to not cause question. But this ad was weird. A single blue box smack dap at the edge of the page. Where most ads were peppered with claims, description, and testimonials this one had one single word upon that small blue box. Tommy asked mom “ What is M-O-D-E-S-S ?” She blushed, then laughed “Because.” He didn’t get the joke, figured it was just some unfathomable adult mystery

Munsi

It’s an improv rule: Once something’s said out loud it becomes a fact.

No matter how foolish the idea sounds, it’s what’s happening and you have to commit to it 100%.

After a number of years doing improv, I started applying this rule to my day-to-day life.

Anything suggested, if even remotely feasible, I’ll agree to.

It’s gotten me into my share of trouble, to be sure, but it’s also led to some of the weirdest, wildest times of my life.

So I’m sticking with my improv rule. When opportunities come up, I’ll always accept them.

Because I don’t no.

Serendipidy Haven

There it is, on the mantelpiece – rescued from the gutter. I don’t know what it is.

Curiosity got the better of me, and now it sits there, intriguingly organic and fibrous – a mystery waiting to be solved.

I like to think it might be one of those desert flowers: its dry husk ready to burst into bloom for one magical moment, like a chrysalis springing briefly into life… it’s probably not. More likely a simple piece of street flotsam; somebody’s thrown away fruit peel, or the skeleton of an old leather purse.

I don’t really care.

It’s my little mystery!

Zackmann

“You have a disorder.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because you download all those ebooks, most of which you never read. Just because they are free, doesn’t mean you have to download them.”
“But some on Digital Ink spot are only free for a limited time. Gotta catchem all.”
“See what I mean and your Internet friends like DAVe Avila and Jeremy Shipp are just enablers.”
“If I have a disorder then just what is this said disorder called?”
“Just because I don’t know or no one has of yet coined a name for it doesn,t mean it isnt a disorder.“

Steven the Nuclear Man

It is layered deep.

Black words shift, sliding in interlocking shields, serifs sculpting sinister glyphs.

They guard it. They keep it from me.

My shears of punctuation and logic (pieced together with loci of syllogisms) puncture words, play havoc with layered defenses.

The words scream non sequitur shouts of agony and rage. I press on. “You should have!” Snip. “Immature ass!” Snip. “You didn’t!” Snip. “You never!” Snip.

The last word screams “I’m leaving,” but I snip snip snip it away.

I reach into the center of the fallen fortress to claim my prize.

I don’t know why I’m alone.

RedGoddess/TalkWithMarie

The weatherman predicted record breaking temperatures. No sun in sight but traffic is already backed up. Everyone is in a hurried state to grab something before reaching work. By 11:12 am, a nearby hotel bursts into flames as commuters run for cover inside various businesses. Within minutes, flashing red and blue lights blanketed the city streets. Firetrucks and ambulance vans dispatched to the affected neighborhood. At exactly 11:21 am, the whole city went pitch black. An old lady covered in ash asks the officer directing traffic, do you know what’s floating in the air? He mumbles,”I don’t know what it is”

Cliff/UncleMonster

Who knows

I don’t know what it is. It just sits there staring at me with its dark probing eyes. Three feet tall and covered in rust colored fur, it watches me as I go about my day. I never see it move but it shows up wherever I go. No one else has seen it or at least, no one will admit to it. I’ve stopped asking.

I can’t touch it. I can’t bring myself to try. I just ignore it, pretending it isn’t there, that I’m not crazy. I can’t help but wonder, though. Does it know what I am?

Butter Milk

Hey, check this out…
What is it?
Look. have you ever seen anything like it?
whoa, what’s it called?
poke it
no! it looks all spiky
feel right here
oh wow! weird!
look what happens
when you do this…
wow, cool! let me try!
can you smell it?
kinda smells like grass
doesn’t it look weird?
totally weird, it’s all spirally.
don’t drop it
ok, don’t worry. I won’t.
I found it out in the field
i want one!
look, look at this here
hehehe it’s so cool!
i think so too
Sorry, what did you say it was called?

Guy David

I entered the building, the microphone hidden in my shirt. Everyone was already there, blending in. The mall was full of people, shopping, talking, arguing, living their lives. I headed for the second floor. The mall speakers started playing the music. I started singing, my voice also coming through the speakers. People stopped in confusion, wondering what’s going on. A woman on the first floor joined in, then another woman on the second floor. We exchanged looks and winked. As the final singer, another man on the first floor joined In, I knew our lives would never be the same.

Abernathy and Sachy

Barnabus had always wanted to be a contestant on Guess What It Is, finally his day is here, his dream has come true and he was ready. He wore his favorite purple cardigan and didn’t change his socks from the night before.

Barnabus was wedged between a professor and cryptozoologist, if he wasn’t nervous before, Barnabus was now.

It was the third round and he had no score, sweating his hand hovered over the buzzer as the display item was rolled out for everyone to guess. Barnabus knew what it was. With a quick reaction his buzzer sounded. “It’s a…”

Norval Joe

Spleen crouched behind the wood pile and watched as the woman and boy approached. The axe handle felt comfortable in his sweaty palm. His forked tongue slipped between his scaled lips and tasted the scent of their blood.
They couldn’t see him in the shadows under the eves of the woodshed, yet they strode directly toward the half-goblin.
“I don’t know what it is about goblins,” the woman said. “They think they’re invisible when they’re in plain sight.”
“What do you mean, Shareeka?” The boy asked.
Spleen laughed and launched himself over the wood pile to answer the boy’s question.

Planet Z

It used to be that there were just plain and peanut M&Ms.

You could tell which was which by the shape.

Now they have all different kinds: pretzel, peanut butter, coconut, dark chocolate, and even mint.

Oh, and white chocolate. And the peanut with peanut butter.

And instead of the usual boring colors, all kinds of crazy colors, too.

When I pick up an M&M now, I have no idea what it is.

Or if it’s an M&M at all.

These sleeping pills look like M&Ms.

And Rich Uncle Fred loves ‘em.

They’ll rule it suicide.

Better doublecheck the will.